Widow


My threadbare clothes have long since been devoured
by the now dead moths paled in fright in the waiting line;
I have not escaped her hunger,
but they never would have satisfied mine.

Small strips of flesh are strewn about
like wildly tattered rags in the upset of a natural disaster
upon a cyclone fenceline.
Mine?

I attempt to break the barbs of this prison wire
delicately woven by this black demon hell-bent
on devouring impressionable hearts.
At every twist, the lid of my silk coffin
envelops me tighter into darkness.

The slivers of light she permits me to see
radiate off of the corpses she’s abused before me.
My companions twisted, stiff gazes
warn me that her love is cowardly and foul, but
her salvation is ingenious and captivating;
I cannot look away as she instructs me to mirror my features
after those who have worshipped here before me.

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